


Tea in a Thermos

by Evayna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M, Mostly Dialogue, Pre-Slash, Road Trips, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evayna/pseuds/Evayna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the dialogue prompt “Oh, you’re awake. Good. Tea?” from mindpalaceofversailles for the Johnlock Grab Bag Challenge. The boys take an impromptu road trip in the middle of the night in a stolen car. It's fluffier than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea in a Thermos

“Oh, you’re awake. Good. Tea?”  
John groaned. There was a crick in his neck and a little drool on his collar. Where was he?  
"Where am I?" he asked, struggling to open his eyes.  
"Good question, I think you just missed Goole."  
"Goole?"    
"It'll be Howden soon enough. Tea?"  
Sherlock was waving a thermos in front of John's chest. He moved for it but his seatbelt stopped him. He was in a car. Sherlock didn't have a car...  
"Who's car is this?"  
"John, I've learned not to expect perfect recall when your obscenely high requirements for sleep haven't been met, but surely you don't expect me to relay the tedium of events you yourself were actually present for just because you are 'groggy'."  
John scowled and snatched the thermos from him. The tea was a little sweet, but strong enough to wake him up with a cough. Not that it seemed nearly the right time to be awake. The sky was only just turning green with dawn, and the sheep were still sleeping in the fields.   
"Sorry, but where are we again?"  
"Just missed Howden too I'm afraid."  
"Sherlock."  
His flatmate was evidently enjoying toying with John: instead of answering he started humming. His baritone quietly lilted through the car.  
" _Are you going_..."  
Dread swept over John in a wave. "Oh god."  
"Oh yes!"  
"You've got to be joking."  
They were in Yorkshire, on their way to Scarborough, because the only clue Sherlock could find in the whole flat was a message left on the victim's voice mail he insisted had an obvious Scarborough accent. The victim...  
"This is her car?"  
Sherlock nodded curtly as he smoothly took a corner.  
"You stole a missing woman's car."  
"The trains don't even start until 6:15," Sherlock said distastefully.  
"Well, that does explain the dashboard unicorn, I suppose."  
Sherlock grinned and turned the wheel again.  
"The unicorn actually supports my theory."  
"That was the one Lestrade disagreed with, wasn't it?"  
"A runaway!" Sherlock balked. "Her parents let her have her own car, her own flat, why would she run away?"  
"Teenagers do things like that."  
"Teenagers do not have unicorns."  
"I-," started John, baffled. "You know, sometimes I think I'll get used to the strange things you say, but you always manage to pull a new one."  
"John." Sherlock's tone was low, traditionally used for addressing distracted children. "She may very well be mature - for example she takes good care of her car - but she certainly doesn't _display_ maturity. You saw her wardrobe, as well as the posters and stuffed animals. Never mind-" he picked up a cd from the dashboard, "Hip Hop Blastz 3."  
"So?"  
"So I think she was a target of the King's Cross Killer."  
"Oh." John had been reading about him in the paper for weeks. Sherlock was absolutely up the wall that the case had been given to a different team down at the Yard who wouldn't work with him. Lestrade had tried to explain that he's not actually the only police officer in London, and that Sherlock and John's rates of offing serial killers rather than turning them in didn't encourage higher ups to let him stay a police officer at all. Missing persons and criminal scraps were all he was left with as other DIs ran about England finding young bodies at railway stations. All arriving on trains from King's Cross, all 12-14. "But she's seventeen."  
"Not everyone looks every year of their age like you do, John. And she wore rainbow beads in her braids. Beads!"  
"You know what I think this is?"  
"Oh do let me guess."  
"I think you're in a snit because you're not allowed on the case so now you're trying to pretend this is related."  
"I'm not pretending."  
"Well, if you're not pretending, you need to inform the proper authorities."  
There was a burst of laughter to John's right.  
"Ah, of course, who am I talking to..." He took another sip from the thermos and watched the odd sheep stirring in the meadows. There was a touch of pink to the horizon now, and it reflected on their little wooly bodies like candy floss. "Was there a reason we couldn't just wait and take the train?"  
"Four reasons. One: She's been kidnapped by a serial killer who does not keep his victims for more than two days-"  
"Allegedly kidnapped."  
"John, are you defending the King's Cross Killer?"  
"No, just accuracy. There's no evidence for your theory yet."  
"Hm, well I suppose I'll have to take that 'yet' as a symbol of your support. Two: Her connections in Scarborough will surely recognize the car, and we'll find them without even having to seek them out."  
"Is this a sky blue BMW?"  
"Yes, not the most common shade in Yorkshire, I'd wager. Three: Trains are cramped, unreliable, and they smell."  
"Smell?"  
"Yes."  
"Ahh..." John mused, some of the night before coming back to him. "I think I remember what number four may be."  
"Oh, did you manage to hear anything over your snoring? Because I was certainly challenged."  
John started chuckling. "You had a row with the train station attendant. He said you must be out of your mind."  
"A common enough observation, though wrong."  
"And you said," John continued before laughing, "that he must be out of his pen."  
"He didn't care for that, but it was the only thing that would account for his-"  
"Smell. Yes, I remember." John laughed again and shook his head to himself, but when he looked up Sherlock was smiling and casting him glances. "You know they may not let you on a train for a very long time."  
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't have much desire to travel by rail anyway. Don't you know there's a killer on the loose?"  
"Mm, and if you need to catch a train to catch the killer?"  
"Then I'm sure Mycroft can sort something out."  
"Ah, of course. Your last resort for everything."  
"Not quite."  
"No?"  
"No, my last resort would be to inform the proper authorities."  
They both laughed at that as the car sped around bends and shook leaves from the hedgerows. The legal limit wasn't of absolute concern this time of day, though here and there lights were coming on in farmhouses; little windows in the haze. When John peered up the stars were still visible in the sky. Millions of them, impossibly more than he could see in London. They disappeared at the rosy horizon, where the road curved past trees and grassy mounds, seeped in a thin mist.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Yes, John."  
"Have you been driving all night?"  
"Oh no, John, don't you remember how we've been taking turns?"  
"Very funny. It must have been 3am when we tried the train station, and god help me if you weren't on the violin the whole of yesterday night, screeching away."  
"I hardly played the violin all night, but I can tell you're just making a point about my sleeping, which is none of your concern, I assure you."  
"None of my concern? At the speeds you're going at?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not like you, I don't lose my head every time it's separated from a pillow for more than 6 hours."  
"I don't sleep that often!"  
"And thus we all suffer the effects."  
"You!" John clenched his jaw before turning away to the window. "You get mean when you're sleep-deprived."  
Sherlock scoffed. "And you get sensitive when you haven't had enough tea."  
"Some tea," John complained, but he drank more nonetheless.  
They fell into a less than companionable silence for a while, and John tried to go back to sleep.  
"I can tell you're faking," Sherlock said.  
"I wouldn't have to be faking if you'd shut up."  
It was a waste though. The sky was getting lighter, clouds tugging pink and orange over the dales, veiling the stars and revealing the grasses. Out of the corner of his eye John peered at Sherlock, who thankfully kept looking ahead. Early morning didn't seem the right time for him. He was a man of moonlight and shadows, late night taxis and fire escapes. But here he was, hair unkempt and soft green eyes bouncing from the yellow line to a cloud of starlings bursting from the hedgerows and back to the yellow line again, hands tight around the wheel, dashboard unicorn standing guard.  
"Wait a second," John started.  
"I don't intend to."  
"If you've been driving all night-"  
"I feel like we've covered this."  
"-then how come the tea is still hot?"  
"It _is_ in a thermos."  
"You stopped somewhere to get tea and you didn't bother to wake me?"  
"Not quite how I'd describe it."  
"And how would you describe it?"  
"I stopped somewhere to get tea for when you woke up."  
"Oh."  
John considered it for a moment. Although the tea had been sweet, it wasn't as sweet as Sherlock the Bloody Sugar Fiend would take his. The tea was, astonishingly, just for him. In the wee-est of hours, somewhere in the backwoods of a long race across England, with _objectively_ very little sleep, his flatmate had found an all night diner and bought him some tea.  
"Is this an apology for the all night violin session?"  
"It wasn't all night."  
John huffed at that and smiled. Right. Not a language Sherlock speaks. Simple expressions of apology or gratitude have to be coded and encrypted, wrapped in enigmas for good measure.  
"Since I'm not getting back to sleep, shall I take a turn at the wheel?"  
"I don't think that's necessary."  
"There's still a ways to go."  
"Mm, I should revise that: I don't think that's necessary or wise."  
"It's a near empty road with no sharp corners, I think I can handle it."  
John fixed his stare on him.  
"This is you insisting, isn't it?"  
"Yes, it is." John was happy Sherlock had finally become able to pick up on what he considered basic social cues. Sherlock however, just sighed dramatically and pulled over, rolling his eyes for good measure. They both got out and crossed in front of the headlights, kicking up dust and startling rabbits hiding in the thicket. John nudged Sherlock playfully as they passed, and Sherlock went a little off balance for a moment before attempting to trip up John. They both laughed and twisted around, hunched like wrestlers in the ring. John was the first to end it with a smug look and a smooth adjustment of his jacket. Of course, this is was a realm where Sherlock excelled, and when the thick woolen collar came up there was no choice but to retreat to the car. John nestled into the driver's seat and tweaked the rear view mirror so it wasn't tilted so damned high.  
"It's an automatic."  
"I can see that."  
"Shouldn't be too hard for you."  
"Oh shut up."  
John buckled in again and eased the car back to the road.  
"You know," Sherlock taunted, "There is a woman possibly dying out there, but of course, no rush."  
"No more talking. My car, my rules."  
"Don't mind the stolen property now that you're behind the wheel I see."  
"No talking. Do I have to put on the radio?"  
"You wouldn't." Sherlock's voice dripped with tar and bitumen as he stuck John with his glare. Those eyes didn't seem so soft now, even if the light was still easy.  
"No. No, I don't want a repeat of last time."  
"Mm, getting back some of your basic recall I see." Sherlock smirked and nestled into his big coat.  
The talking stopped and the radio was given a wide berth, but only a mile had passed before John started singing under his breath.  
" _Are you going... to Scarborough fair..._ "  
" _Parsley, sage... rosemary, and thyme..._ " rejoined Sherlock.  
John would have laughed, but it just wasn't in him. He kept singing.  
" _Remember me... to one who lives there..._ "  
" _She... once was... a true love of mine.._."  
John couldn't remember the rest of the song, but he hummed it, and Sherlock harmonized nicely, growing quieter as the sun started to kiss the horizon.  
There were few sounds above the thrumming engine and the tires soaring across pavement. Occasionally a bird would sing or a lamb would bleat, but the echoes washed past as the car raced through the farmlands, heading for the shore. John hadn't seen the ocean for a long time. It was still a while off but he could see the light reflecting off it and onto the clouds, creating a glow to the east.  
John was admiring the glow when his pocket vibrated. He knew he shouldn't read texts while driving but the temptation was overpowering, and the road was nearly straight anyway. Pulling his mobile out he saw Lestrade's familiar number.  
 _'Sorry about hour. Runaway found. Boyfriend's dorm. Tell Sherlock.'_  
John chuckled to himself, shaking his head. A runaway after all. He turned to rub it in Sherlock's face, but he found the man asleep, lips parted and breathing softly, hair even more of a mess, pale skin warming in the rosy light of dawn.  
"Well, it'll be nice to see the ocean at least," he said to himself and kept driving towards the coast, the sun finally truly rising.  
  
  
  



End file.
